


Of Bendy Busses and Moon Landings

by ariane221b



Category: British Comedy RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., Scientist RPF, Wonders Of Life RPF
Genre: Brians a stupid little shit, Chance Meetings, Crack, Cuddling & Snuggling, Doctor Who References, Fluff, I'm so sorry, M/M, Morning After, Pre-Slash, Relationship Advice, Science, Slash, Smoking, Tea
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:57:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariane221b/pseuds/ariane221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waking up in someone else's bed with a hangover is never fun, unless that person is a politician in a party you don't vote for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consultingtimelady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultingtimelady/gifts), [kyaticlikestea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyaticlikestea/gifts).



> This was a dare, mostly from myself, but also from two other people. And when I say 'dare', I mean I told some people to dare me to do it, so that I had an excuse. I had a lot of fun writing this.  
> I'm sorry for any horrible mistakes. I had to stop every five minutes to gesture skywards and scream "I'm so sorry, I am a horrible person." And then reward myself with ice cream.  
> Writing is hard.

Brian’s head felt like someone had tried, and succeeded in ramming the Hubble telescope inside it. He screwed his eyes shut against the impeding daylight, and pulled the duvet back over his head, tried to trap in the dark. _The Sun is a cock_ , he though, definitely not for the first time. Slowly, Brian tried to take stock of as much of the situation as he could with his eyes closed. His legs were still attached, which was certainly a plus, but they also felt like they had been run over with the Mars rover. He stretched out an arm, to his left. _These are not my sheets_ , he thought. He rolled his head to the side, rubbing his face into the pillow. There was a definite smell of… Tory. Or jasmine. It’s surprisingly hard to tell.

Very suddenly, he became aware of another body, lying asleep next to him, when the body snored. Brian froze; _bollocks_. He listened carefully. That was not normal snoring. There was a soft intake of breath, and then, instead of an exhale… no. No, that couldn’t be right. But, oh God, it was. Instead of a nice, normal exhale, there was a gentle murmur of “Wiffwaff wiffwaff wiffwaff...”

Brian rolled over, cracking his eyes over, and peeked over the top of the duvet. Next to him, the tell-tale mop of Boris Johnson’s hair seemed to flutter, as the man sighed, before settling again. Well, as much as that hair could settle. Brian shoved his face back into the pillow. _If there was ever a time for a convenient black hole, this would be it_. From some deep crevice of his memory, he could remember a few sketchy details about the awards ceremony the night before. He was 80% sure Ed Milliband had been there as well, why couldn’t he have gone home with him? At least he was Labour.  Next to him, Boris rolled over and snaked one arm over Brian’s waist in his sleep, pinning him down. It was pathetically endearing. In his sleep, Boris muttered something about a bendy bus.

 _Well_ , Brian though, _I’ve probably picked the best of the Conservative party._ After all, it could have been George Osborne. Brian shuddered. Boris’s hair tickled Brian’s chin, and on instinct, he lifted one hand to smooth it back down. It was surprisingly soft; he let his hand linger for a while, before pulling himself together – _it was a harmless fling, stop being daft_. The situation was, perhaps surprisingly, quite comfortable, despite some of Brian’s circulation being cut off. He wiggled into a sitting position, trying to avoid waking Boris, who simple shoved his head inside Brian’s armpit, and snored once more.

Brian made an attempt to piece together his surroundings; which was rather difficult with his eyes half closed against the light. The white cotton curtains did nothing to stop the sun streaming through, and bouncing off the walls. They lifted silently in the breeze from the open window, and from outside the sounds of London provided a comforting background noise; he missed Manchester. On the opposite wall there was a rather abstract painting of what appeared to be cows, and a vintage Union Flag hung over the bed, behind his head. Opposite the window, there was heavy, dark wood desk, which matched the wardrobe and headboard of the bed. It was simple, while calling out posh. Much like Boris himself, really.

As carefully as he could, he edged out from under Boris’s arm, wincing as he attempted to stand upright on the thick carpet. He swayed slightly, tried and failed to regain any balance he had possessed previously, and went in search of his pants in the array of clothes which were rather artfully scattered about the room.

He found the award he had won last night – for Contributions To Science – underneath the desk. From a corner of his memory, an image surfaced of Boris and himself, sitting under a table with a horrible bottle of wine, which they had passed between them like teenagers. They had both been bored, and the table cloth provided a very handy hiding space for… well. Brian hummed to himself. He found his pants (on top of the wardrobe, no less), and slipped out of the room, as quietly as possible, to go and investigate the kettle situation.

He stopped momentarily by the hall mirror, to examine the necklace of bruises on his chest. Well. Of course the Mayor of London was into biting. He shook his head at his reflection. _What the hell is wrong with you, Cox? Stop enjoying this._

The kitchen was not all that different to the bedroom; same white walls and dark wood cabinets, but with blue marble countertop ( _very Tory_ ) and chessboard floor. There was a portrait of King Charles II, and a string of rather fetching TARDIS shaped fairy lights strung around the window. Brian gave a snort of laughter, and promptly regretted it, when his head throbbed. It felt not unlike a very tiny man, sitting in his head, and kicking his eyeballs with little regard for aim.

He filled up the kettle on the hob, and dug through the cupboards until he found a large collection of mugs. He selected a Scrabble style ‘Q 10’ mug for himself, and on second thoughts, a London underground one for Boris. After all, it was only polite. And he had a niggling feeling that there was probably some damage he should repair. For one of the most British men in the world, he was sure a good cup of tea would heal most wounds. This was good. This was familiar, this was normal. The kettle boiled. He added tea bags, water, did Boris take sugar? No idea. He added one anyway, it was safe middle ground. Tea bags out, milk, good. He carried the mugs back upstairs, and nudged the bedroom door open with is hip.

Boris was sat up in the bed, rubbing his hand over his eyes – Brian froze, and mentally kicked himself. For some reason he’d been counting on Boris still being asleep. He had a sudden thought that Boris might kick him out – one night stands tend not to sit too well with politicians. Boris looked up, and levelled his gaze at Brian for a moment. Then – “You’re not the messiah; you’re a very naughty boy.”

Brian snorted. He probably should have expected that. “Ah, ha. Yes. Sorry, I suppose?”

“Life Of Brian.  Balderdash, nothing to be sorry about. Is that tea?” Boris made grabby hands at the mug, as Brian tried to kick his brain into gear.

“Oh, ah, yes. I thought it would help with the hangover.” Brian handed the mug over, and carefully clambered back into bed. Boris nodded, slumped back against the pillows, and sighed into his mug.

“You’re wearing pants designed for teenagers, you know.”

Brian did know, but he didn’t care. He was very fond of these pants. They had an over-stylized image of a galaxy printed across them. 

“I actually quite like these pants,” And then, after a brief spark of what may have been actual brain power; “I think I remember you rather enjoyed them too…”  Then he managed to cut himself off by giggling. _Smooth_. He had a feeling that flirty did not suit him.  “I ah, I should probably be heading off soon, then. I didn’t mean to invade your house like this.”

“Ah, not at all my boy, not at all. Anyone who makes tea without prompt is welcome in here.” Boris patted Brian on the knee. _Do not shift over to him, do not shift over, it can only make this situation worse._ Brian shifted closer to him.

“I’m four years older than you, you know, you can’t call me ‘boy’.”

“Detail, details. Now be quiet. You talk too much.” And then Boris bit Brian’s earlobe, which was in no way unpleasant.  A moment later, the mugs had been set aside, and Brian remembered just exactly why this had seemed like so much of a good idea the night before. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night stands always turn into something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second chapter that never should have been. I left school a week ago, and when people signed my book, most of them mentioned Brian Cox, and two of them mentioned this fic. So I thought I should carry it on. There will be more chapters on what happens with the boys later, but for now I'm tired as all fuck, so suck it. Enjoy. Sorry it's so awful.

It had been three weeks since Brian’s impromptu meeting with Boris, and so far he hadn’t heard a peep out of the man. They had said goodbye on Boris’s front step, some point late in the afternoon after a long a shower and a very loud phone call about an urgent meeting to discuss Hyde Park. Brian hadn’t got the details; his rather wonderful brain was never entirely up to scratch while hung over and post-coital. The goodbye had been full of promises about meeting again, and a surprisingly sincere vow that no, this did not mean that Brian had to start voting Conservative. It was only on the train back to Manchester that evening that Brian remembered that he had forgotten to note down Boris’s phone number.

Now, they were back in the same room again, and Boris hadn’t paid a speck of attention to Brian all evening. Brian tried not to take it to heart, but still. A hello would have been nice. Not for the first time, he wondered if lack of manners was something they taught at Eton. They were at a charity ball; nice enough if a little dull, and apparently more to inform the public about the charities work, than actually raise any money. Brian moved through the crowd, wondering if it would be childish to leave early, and just go back to his hotel to sulk. So far, the few attempts he had made as to planting himself in Boris’s line of vision had failed, although at that point in time he was roughly 60% sure this this was something to do with the small flock of Vanity Fair journalists that were fluttering around him like Jupiter’s moons.

Finally, he made the (very grown up) decision to not pay David Mitchel to make out with Charlie Brooker to distract the journalists, and instead to go and stand outside until he stopped behaving like a moody teenager. He grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, wished it was beer, and headed for the back door.

On the terrace, he leaned back on the railing, and breathed in the beautifully cold night air. He hadn’t realised quite how stuffy the hall was getting, it was a relief to be outside. The sky was crystal clear, and absent mindedly, he started naming the stars and linking them into constellations – something he’d started doing in uni to clear his head. He’d got to Eltanin when he heard someone in the darkness nearby mummer the word; “Fag.”

He blinked into the darkness. “Excuse me?”

The voice became a little clearer, and a vague, human shaped shadow appeared. “Fag.”

He was just wondering whether or not running away was a good idea, when the shadow morphed again, and now developed into Sue Perkins, carton of cigarettes in one hand, champagne flute in the other. “Forfucksake, Brian. Do you want a fag or has your brain finally left your body entirely.” He very promptly remembered why he liked Sue.

“Cheers,” He took the offered cigarette and a light. “What brings you out here on this lovely evening?”

She leant next to him on the railing, lighting her own cigarette with all the air of a mafia boss. “Journalists. Don’t be gay and single near journalists. They’re like… Um. Journalists.” She waved her hands in front of her, trailing smoke. He knew what she meant.

They stood in companionable silence for a few minutes, blowing smoke into the sky. Then quite suddenly, sue knocked back the rest of her champagne, and chucked her glass away into the dark garden. “Look, I know you’re a physicist and therefore incapable of finding your own shoes, but are you really just going to ignore a hint that big?”

Brian stared at her for a moment. “What hint?” He thought she might hit him.

“Gay. Single. HELLO!?” She waved her cigarette at him, and he automatically took a step back.

“Um, I’m not gay?”

“Oh right, of course not. You’re close enough,” She rolled her eyes, and they took a moment to refocus on him. That clearly hadn’t been her first glass of champagne.  “Did Mr Johnson not call you back after you shagged?”

He stared at her, feeling suddenly rather mortified. “How on earth did you find out about that?” He took a drag on his cigarette, and stubbed it out on the railing. She offered him another.

“Because I’m a lesbian, and we all have telepathic powers. Or maybe I just saw you mooning after him earlier and put two and two together like anyone else who’s got eyes.”

“Oh, er, I didn’t think it was that obvious.”

“It probably isn’t. Just make sure the BLOODY JOURNALISTS don’t catch you.” That last was yelled in the general direction of the back door. Definitely not her first drink. Brian stared into his own glass. A top up sometime around that moment would have been lovely.

“Well, I, erm. Yes, ok. I assumed he’d be not exactly glad to see me, but at least y’know. Say hello. I’m not sure what grounds we left on, so I don’t know what’s the best move to make.” He had to admit, it was a relief to be able to tell someone about it. Sue nodded in the manner of a wise Buddhist monk.

“And you haven’t called him? Or, I don’t know, Grindr-ed him. Whatever your lot do.”

He suppressed the urge to pour his champagne dregs into her hair – quite a gallant move he thought. “I don’t have his number.”

And then Sue smiled. She smiled a big, Cheshire cat grin, as if she had just got the cream, caught a mouse and found an unattended duvet all at once. “Well then.” She said. “It’s your lucky day. Because I do have his number.”

“You have Boris Johnson’s number? You’re a comedian and TV presenter, he’s the Mayor of London. Why do have his number?”

“Politician reasons.” She arched one brow. “Besides, you’re a physicist and TV presenter, yet _you_ slept with him. Surely it’s not that surprising.” He had to admit; she had a point.

“So then, can I have his number?”

“Hm, no. I don’t think so.” He stared at her, as she pulled out her phone. “You’ll just do something silly with it.” She thumbed over the screen, and Brian decided it was probable best to not know what she was doing.

“I wouldn’t say I’d do anything silly with it. Oh, right, you’ve been listening to Robin haven’t you? I know it’s his favourite joke but contrary to popular opinion, being a physicist does not mean I can’t do things like find my shoes.”

“Whatever. He says he’ll meet you in the Red Lion in… ooh, twenty minutes.”

“Who says what now?”

She gave him a _look_. “Get down to the local in twenty minutes, and try to look shady, you skinny Mancunian burke.” And with that, she skipped back through the doors, looking more pleased with herself than she had any right to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahaha you're hooked now, bitches.


End file.
